Dr. Augustin Arthur embodied rationalism. Serving as the principal field psychologist for the Cognitive Security Directorate he acted as the barrier against the disorders they sought to eliminate. His role involved overseeing the stability of the investigation team detecting initial indicators of "metaphysical contamination" or "apathetic mimesis." He functioned as the warning signal, in the environment armed with the most advanced canary-protection measures science had developed.
The deployment, to the Faroes had disturbed him. The intense emptiness of the location—the quiet, the apathetic steadiness of the rock—did not fit any clinical classification. The calm patterns of the inhabitants contradicted his interaction frameworks. They were neither joyful, nor sorrowful, neither involved nor detached. They were ingrained. It was profoundly unprofessional.
Next arrived Venice. If the Faroes represented a slate Venice was a layered manuscript of graceful capitulation. The strain on the squad was overwhelming. They were assigned to combat a concept that was oozing from, within the stones themselves a threat disguised as tourism and historical allure. Kael, the leader became more tense his commands more precise. The metaphysicians argued over data indicating "ambient potentiality fields" corresponding to water deterioration. The tactical unit longed for a foe to conquer.
Augustin was charged with maintaining their sanity.
He devoted his time to leading resilience workshops examining biometric fluctuations recommending corrective meditation routines. He served as the core of their group's endurance a device built to manage stress and produce measured concentration. Yet devices require upkeep.. His upkeep—his personal periods of introspection his scheduled breaks—started to deteriorate.
It began with the water. Not the Grand Canal,. The narrow dark green channels in the quieter sesiteri. He found himself gazing into their depths beyond the quivering front of a decaying palace into the utter darkness below. His rational mind would activate: " attention, to empty space. Possible warning sign of fugue." Yet another aspect of him a silent part would simply respond: "Yes."
Afterward dreams arrived. Not terrifying ones. Rather their converse.
After completing a sixteen-hour shift he would drift into a sleep and discover himself wandering through an infinite white corridor. The illumination was flawless, gentle and kind. The atmosphere was calm and cool.
Inside this gallery no other individuals were present. Solely exhibits. Every exhibit represented a fragment, from his life not as it occurred but as it never did.
A glass case showcased the "Medical Practice in Lausanne 2045." Not the bustling clinic he had established. The modest serene practice, in the mountains he had contemplated and dismissed in favor of a more esteemed CSD profession. The miniature depicted an office, a window gazing out at pines and a vacant chair that appeared deeply inviting.
On a plinth sat the "Unwritten Paper, on Somatic Stress." While the title page appeared refined the subsequent pages were empty. A brief note stated: "Considered a groundbreaking piece. The quietude of its absence speaks volumes."
An entire section was devoted, to "Unspoken Conversations." A holographic image of his father, frozen mid-sentence wore an expression of comprehension that Augustin had never truly witnessed. A projection of a woman he respected but never invited to dine trapped in a laugh that would always remain imaginary.
The displays weren't judgmental. They were assembled with respect. They weren't mistakes. Opportunities unexplored kept intact in the crystal of sheer possibility. A deep calm resided here. A break, from the draining course of his real life—the decisions finalized the targets achieved the worries controlled. This exhibition contained the lovely spirit of the individual he might have become had he not struggled so much to become the person he was.
He would jolt awake his heart monitor emitting a beep. He'd ignore it noting it down as "work-induced dream remnants." Yet the sensation stayed. The calm of the gallery stayed with him longer each time a scent tangible, than the moist Venetian atmosphere.
The tipping moment occurred in a team meeting held at their headquarters. Kael was venting about containment procedures pounding on a display of "lag zones." A metaphysician was monotonously explaining " resonance." Augustin's task was to evaluate their strain.. Rather than focusing he caught himself staring beyond them through the tall window at the exterior of a church, with a bell tower that was just a bit crooked.
He didn't notice a defect. He observed elegance. He perceived the tower's centuries-spanning exchange, with the ground a discourse of unavoidable surrender. It was the genuine connection he'd encountered in years.
The briefing room dissolved. The chatter turned into a hum. Within his imagination the gallery unfolded. A fresh section was getting ready. The main pedestal stood vacant illuminated by a flawless beam. On the velvet rested a card:
"Proposed Acquisition: The Psychologist's Final Diagnosis."
Subject: A.A.
Status: Ongoing. The instant of expert insight when the diagnostic model turns into the issue itself. A brilliant example of submission.
He let out a gasp.
The chamber grew quiet. Kael, the metaphysician, the tactical lead—all fixed their gaze on him.
"Doctor? Your vitals are surging. Update " Kael commanded, his tone sharp, as breaking ice.
Augustin gazed at them their expressions with worry and mistrust. He regarded them not as teammates. As desperate repairers attempting to reattach fragments to a vase that broken was much more fascinating. He noticed the weariness beneath Kael's anger the uncertainty, in the metaphysician's gaze. They were all struggling intensely to avoid acknowledging the gallery.
"I…" he started, his voice rough. The medical jargon, the expert demeanor tasted like ashes on his tongue. He might lie. He might blame sleep deprivation. He might adjust.
Instead he expressed the honest thing he understood. "I need a moment. To… to refrain from diagnosing."
He rose, exited the briefing room bypassed the agents and stepped into the Venetian afternoon. He ignored his designated "recharge pod." Instead he wandered until he came across a hidden courtyard, where a stone bench was damp, with moss and a lone persistent geranium sprouted from a fissure.
He remained seated. He avoided looking at his messages. He refrained from paying attention to his breathing. He just observed a strand of moss quiver in a wind he was unable to sense.
The gallery in his mind was quiet, waiting. The spotlight on the empty plinth was warm. For the first time since he could remember, Augustin Arthur, guardian of sanity, allowed himself to consider the aesthetics of his own unraveling. And in that consideration, he found not terror, but the first genuine peace of his adult life. The canary was not dying. It had simply stopped singing, and discovered the profound beauty of the silence it had been hired to fill.